


A Little Touch

by Ladycat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Author gave up on actually writing a story, F/M, Fingerfucking, For reasons, Girl!Stiles, Oral Fixation, Plot What Plot, Porn, There is no story here, With stiles as a girl, just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a girl.  For reasons.  Derek find this... really compelling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Green. There is seriously *no actual story here*. Stiles is a girl, and there's porn. That's pretty much it.

Stiles doesn't get it until he hits the bathroom. Mornings are a bleary affair if there's no adrenaline spike to push him into full wakefulness. It's all fumbling, shambling through his bedroom until he shoulders the bathroom door open, palms the light without really opening his eyes and pushes down his boxers.

Heart pounding, Stiles looks down. At himself.

It's different.

"What." It isn't a question, mostly because- what. And how. And _what_.

The normal trail of hair that goes from navel down is gone. Instead his skin is smooth and pale, slightly rounded in ways it wasn't before- his abs have no packs to be counted, but they were flat and this is a _swell_ , so definitely not flat- until it reaches a thatch of dark hair that appears out of no where.

After that.... "Holy shit," Stiles says. "Holy _shit_."

Why does this always happen to him? Well, okay, sure, Scott got turned into a werewolf and on better days Stiles will concede that that is probably a bigger deal, only right now he is contemplating the lack of his _dick_. His _manhood_.

Also, holy shit, he has boobs.

*

_And then something happens and some other things happen and Derek and Stiles end up alone in Derek's loft and oh, look, they're both turned on._

*

Derek's hand is _huge_ when it settles against Stiles' hip. For all they're similar in height- okay, they _used to be_ , dammit- Derek has a massiveness to him that Stiles couldn't compete with. Age, maybe, or the wolf. Or Derek's freakish dedication to working out. Whatever it was, Derek has always been big.

Only now Stiles is- he isn't little, he refused to contemplate that because no. But with Derek behind him it's hard to miss how Stiles' fits between his shoulder so neatly. He's bracketed, surrounded by the sheer physicality of Derek. That one hand on his hip makes him feel small.

He thought he'd hate that. Turns out not so much?

The shiver that hits Stiles races up from the small of his back and he can't help but lean, just a little. Derek matches the movement, curving towards him in a way that feels smooth and easy. Expected.

They end up back-to-chest, Stiles held loosely against Derek's bulk. It's... he shivers again, caught between the solid heaviness around him and the breath that brushes his shoulder, his neck, raising goose bumps before another gust of wet warmth soothes them back down.

"I- " His voice cracks. Girls' voices don't crack, dammit.

"I've got you," Derek says. 

Physically, Stiles will definitely agree. He's completely surrounded by Derek now, the hand on his left hip sliding around to curl around the right, his forearm startlingly huge as it lays across Stiles' stomach. Like a seatbelt. It should probably feel restraining. Stiles doesn't like being pinned or held down for any reason, thanks to the last year of his life, but this is... comforting. Like a blanket more than a means of control, something Stiles can steady himself against when Derek inhales, his chest rocking Stiles back and forth in a lulling rhythm.

Mentally, though. Mentally Stiles is a flailing, confused mess. What is going _on_? What is Derek _doing_? And why the hell does Stiles feel so _warm_ inside, a trembling sort of heat that burns low down in his belly. Stiles has no means of comparison here and while flying on his gut has served him pretty well in the past, this time his gut isn't really his, it's all wrong, and twisted, and this whole thing doesn't make any sense, and oh god, Derek is cupping between his legs and holy shit _pressure_.

Stiles' moan is a sweet, sighing sound.

"Let me," Derek asks, the lack of questioning tone in no way making it a statement. "Please."

"Do what? You keep asking but without you telling me what, which is so typical of you," Stiles babbles, because his hips are _jerking_ , and the heel of Derek's hand is pushing against something Stiles is pretty sure he knows what it is and _what_ , "you never actually explain anything, just cryptic phrases and then the vanishing and oh, oh my god, what are you doing?"

Derek circles his wrist again, shifting the pressure against what is absolutely Stiles' clit. "You know what I'm doing."

"Honestly? I really don't, so much."

The coughing carburetor sound of Derek laughing makes Stiles flush. He doesn't know why. "You do. I can smell how wet you are. Feel it. A few more minutes and you'll soak through your jeans."

And right, Stiles thinks, that's why he feels so warm and... slick. Because he _is_.

Warm, strangely dexterous fingers slide up and down the seam of his jeans, putting pressure on a different sort of seam before sliding up to make tight little circles. Stiles cries out, jerking, hips moving totally differently than he's used to because his center of gravity is off, _everything_ is off, but there's a gradual increase of the tension inside of him, winding him up until he feels flushed, breathless and- and _needy_ , held between Derek's chest and the steady pressure of Derek's arm held tightly around his middle.

"You smell so good," Derek tells him, a low, throbbing note that somehow matches the neediness Stiles feels. "Let me taste you."

"You want- you want to fuck me." Bluntness. A tried and true way of shocking Derek out of this weirdly deferential behavior and growl at him and be all- all _Derek_ again.

But Derek says, "Later, if you want me to," like it's not even an issue. Like he doesn't actually care.

"Are you a p-pod-Derek?" Stiles demands, twisting just enough- and that Derek lets him, relaxes the muscles of his forearm, which Stiles can _see_ , giving Stiles the room to turn, that shouldn't be so _hot_ , shouldn't make him feel even more liquid inside- to stare up into a hungry expression.

Stiles gulps. Shivers, again, and leans into the curve of Derek's shoulder. He doesn't think about how his knees aren't doing much of anything right now, or how Derek is incredibly handsome and he's staring at Stiles like he's a _feast_ , like Derek has been starving for years.

And Stiles knows this because it isn't the first time he's seen that expression. No, he's seen it a couple of times, actually. Quick, glancing things, like an old camera shutter clicking, there and gone again. Derek has looked at Stiles this way before. 

_Male_ Stiles.

Derek doesn't notice that Stiles is having a mental nervous breakdown over the idea that Derek has _always wanted him_. Derek is too busy shaking his head slightly and _licking his lips_. "No. You smell so _good_ , Stiles. You always do. Let me." His fingers work again and Stiles jerks up higher in his arms, choking on a gasp. "Let me."

The strange neediness that Stiles feels is echoed in that plea. And it is a plea. Stiles can tell that; feel it.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah. Okay."

Lips quirked in what could almost be called a smile, Derek tilts his head. "Put your arms around my neck."

"What? Dude. Just because I have the girl parts doesn't mean- "

"Stiles. Just do it."

Grumbling, Stiles reluctantly complies- and then makes a sound that is _definitely_ not a squeal when Derek scoops him up in a god damned _bridal carry_. It isn't nice. At all. Stiles says this at length while he feels something hot and wet slide against his thighs.

Practiced at ignoring things, Derek doesn't respond. He just carries Stiles over to the bed, shoving the top cover down to expose clean, soft sheets.

"You have _microfiber_ sheets, Derek," Stiles complains, leaning back on his palms. "What the hell. You live on desolation and despair. Why do you have creature comforts?"

"Because maybe I don't anymore. "

"Because maybe you don't _what_ , anymore?" Stiles retorts, and then makes one of those breathy, fragile gasps that only a female throat can manage.

The buttons of his jeans are undone, zipper tugged down.

"It's okay," Derek says as the pale expanse of Stiles' stomach is revealed, shirt pushed up to where his bra rests. "Don't be nervous. I'm going to take good care of you."

"That is- that is like the number one thing to say to make someone nervous." Stiles believes that enough to ignore the treacherous part of him that got a little weak when Derek said that.

"Maybe," Derek concedes. It would mean more if he would look at Stiles' eyes and not the stupid cotton undies he wore. "But it's true."

The treacherous part of him gets a little bigger. Dammit. Stiles shoves that away and decides enough with this quasi-romantic shit. If they're going to do this- and clearly they are, since Derek is inhaling deeply with a pleased expression obvious on his dark features, and Stiles is so wet now, throbbing in time with his rapid pulse, that to stop now would be torture- then he's going to be an active participant.

Skinning out of his shirt is easy enough. Sure, he can't yank it over his head as easily, but he's mastered the squirming wiggle girls do. He reaches for his bra but Derek's hand is there, huge and powerful, stopping him.

"Not yet," Derek says, bright eyed. "I told you. I'll take care of you."

Stiles' bra is soaked through by the time it actually comes off. His breasts are tender, over sensitized from the pressure of soft lips and rough stubble. His nipples hurt, taut and aching for that soft, wet heat of Derek's mouth again, the way each touch or lick sends a bolt of pleasure through his whole body.

Derek grins, and it's _cheeky_ somehow. How is Derek able to do cheeky? "You have nice breasts."

"I have small tits," Stiles corrects. He's barely a b-cup.

"No. They're nice. Arch your back."

Stiles responds without thinking. He's done that a few times while Derek enjoyed his boobs, but he'd been too lost in the way it felt to notice it. Now it's awkward, strange to do what Derek says without some sort of retaliation.

It... also feels kind of nice? Maybe?

Derek unclasps his bra with a flick of his fingers. Given how hard it is for Stiles to put the damn thing on, he is understandably a little jealous. Derek catches it and- jesus, he _smiles_ , flashing the white of his teeth against the dark shadow of his stubble.

"I'll teach you later. Lay down."

And then they start over. Derek licks and kisses, kneads and sucks every part of Stiles' boobs until they're swollen, so tender that even breathing on them makes him cry out.

"You sound good," Derek tells him, repeating the slight nip and then suck motion, watching as Stiles pants out something whimpery sounding.

"I sound like a girl."

"No. Well, yeah, you do. But you sound happy." Derek rubs his face against Stiles' chest, which, holy shit, stubble! "You smell happy, too. Lean up against the pillows."

Again with the orders. Stiles still does it without a grumble. He is confused when Derek climbs up to lie beside him, kissing Stiles' neck and the point of his jaw.

"First time like this," Derek says. "I want to watch you."

"We are going to have to work on your communication skills, Derek. It's bad enough when we're facing something ridiculous that wants to kill us. When you're fu- uhm. When you're with- "

Derek gives him a lazy smile. "When we're having sex."

Blushing until his ears tremble, Stiles ducks his head. It's hard with Derek right there and it takes preternatural grace to avoid any painful knocks. "Fine. When we're having sex, telling me what you're doing is really, really- ohmygod."

Two fingers. That's all. The press against his pussy, stroking up and down the outer area until the sheer amount of slick wetness sends him delving inside.

And then- _inside_.

"Derek," Stiles pants without meaning to. "Oh, god- Derek, what."

"Shh, I told you. I'll take care of you. Look at me, Stiles. I want to see you."

"See me look like- oh _god_ \- an idiot?"

One long, thick finger is carefully easing inside of him. Inside of _Stiles_. He is being _finger fucked_ by Derek, and the feeling is _amazing_. Something full that he didn't know was yearningly empty, a space that gradually fills up as his body relaxes, accepting the intrusion enough that Derek can slide in a second one.

The fingers inside him slip back and forth, in and out. Stiles rocks up to meet them, unable to do anything but lean against the bicep that's somehow under his head, back arching. The sound of it isn't exactly sexy but Stiles finds he loves it. The weird wetness, the way Derek pants against his ear. All of it. It feels so god damned good.

And then Derek reaches a thumb up to start circling around his clit.

Thirty seconds of that and Stiles rolls into something that is somehow tight and loose and so fucking good that he wants to cry. It's nothing like the release he feels as a boy. That's just pure relief, relaxing something wound far too tight. This- this is a whole-body response that leaves his toes tingling and his mind fuzzy and his body floating somewhere far, far away.

"Oh," he says, to the ceiling. "Oh."

"That's what I want to see."

Stiles flops his head over. "Hunh?"

"I wanted to see you come. I won't really be able to later."

"There's a later?"

For all Derek is most definitely a werewolf, the times when he looks lupine are rare. Mostly he looks like a bear in the non-gay culture kind of way: something heavy, large, covered with hair and impressively massive eyebrows, prone to scowling, growling, and generally being grumpy as hell.

This Derek sports a smile that can only be called wolfish. His eyes are _dancing_ with pleasure.

Stiles realizes he should probably be afraid. He's way too relaxed to be worried, though. And anyway, it's Derek. His incredibly poor planning isn't really relevant when he's already gotten Stiles to come, something Stiles was unable to do the first couple of times he tried.

Derek meets Stiles' eyes and lets his smile edge into a smirk. His teeth are really white. "There's definitely a later."

Thirty seconds after that, Stiles shouts to the ceiling, not able to see any of the exposed piles or cracked tile because there are two huge hands on his thighs, pushing him open, and there is a mouth, a hot, voracious mouth, licking into his body over and over.

And over. And- "Oh, god, biting, do that again," he begs, hips bucking as Derek fucking _slurps_ at him, teeth a careful line of brightness that completely blinds Stiles with pleasure. "Please, Derek, I need- I need- "

The hands on his hips slide up over to his belly, pushing lightly. They easily span his enter stomach, the heels of each hand rubbing just above his hips in light waves of pressure. It feels strange, not good or bad, but after a second Stiles relaxes into it. It makes him feel- protected, he realizes, mind scrambling through waves of pleasure to actually find the right word.

It makes him feel cherished.

The first orgasm rolls up so slowly that Stiles doesn't realize it until Derek is groaning something pleased. "Told you I wouldn't be able to see you," he rumbles, the words pressed to the sensitized folds of Stiles' pussy. "Too busy."

When Stiles finally stops wheezing for breath, he looks down the length of his naked body. Derek is still between the v of Stiles' legs, absolutely content as he nuzzles and licks trembling thighs. There isn't anything that feels like kissing, not really. Stiles isn't sure why he wonders about that.

"Do you want to sit up? Watch this time?"

"I probably need to be propped up," he admits, ruefully annoyed. "Wait- this time? Again?"

Derek cocks an eyebrow without ever look up. "You want to stop?"

"I have no idea? I have no idea of what I'm _feeling_. If I were a guy and I could get it up, I would definitely say again because really, again. But this," he waves a hand to the breasts that sit pertly on his chest, the way his hip flare out and the mess of curls between his legs, "is different. I feel relaxed and good, oh god so good, and if you repeat that to anyone I will find some way to shove wolfsbane in your hair products, but I have no idea if I can go again or not."

Derek just shrugs. "So we'll find out. I told you: I'll take care of you."

"I don't know what that _means_ ," Stiles complains, but it doesn't matter. Because Derek is licking him from ass to clit, tonguing it delicately while lightning shoots underneath Stiles' skin. He's cradling Stiles' ass and lifting him up for a better angle and all Stiles has to do is hang there, dead weight, while he's eaten out.

He definitely comes again. And again.

By the time Derek actually decides he's done they're both panting like freight engines. Stiles is glowing in the low lights with sweat, his legs almost incandescent. Derek isn't immune from the wet that is basically everywhere, mouth and stubble shiny and his shirt sticking to him in places.

"We just had sex and I didn't even get to see you with your shirt off," Stiles complains, lazily. He's completely limp beyond the panting. Exhausted.

It feels fantastic.

Derek shrugs but makes no move to disrobe. Bastard. So much for the taking care of Stiles.

Keeping up his mental grumbling is too much work when he feels this good so Stiles lets the low grade annoyance fade into nothing. And anyway, Derek is crawling up to lay beside him, manhandling- womanhandling?- Stiles until they're both so tangled together that Stiles isn't sure if he's lying on Derek or Derek lying on him.

"Are we cuddling?"

"Does it feel good?"

Stiles takes a moment to think. Derek is idly stroking his back, surrendering shoulder and chest for a pillow whenever Stiles decides to use it. His body does feel good against Stiles. Strong and... and stable, maybe. Stiles and his body have never had the greatest of relationships but right now, Stiles thinks that he could do anything, roll or flail or bite the interesting looking tendon in Derek's neck, and he wouldn't go anywhere. Derek would just hold him, ground him, and keep him safe.

It's really that more than the sodden relaxation of coming so many times or the heady mixtures of their bodies and sweat and sex in the air that makes him decide.

"Yeah," Stiles says, and gives in, biting Derek's neck lightly. "Yeah, it feels really good."

The hand on his back doesn't stop, but it presses a little harder until Stiles stops biting.

It's nice. All of this.

"You didn't get off," Stiles says, eventually.

It's hard to miss, pressed up as close as they are. Derek has to be dying of blue balls by now, his cock a heavy line of heat against Stiles' hip.

Derek shrugs. "Later. Wasn't about that."

"Having sex wasn't about two or more people both getting off? Because if so, the whole world has pretty much lied to me and porn needs to be brought up on charges."

"Sex is about what you choose it to be."

Stiles actually lifts his head up because _seriously what_ \- and then puts it back down. The therapist-sounding vibe aside, Derek isn't wrong. Especially when Derek's history is considered. Sex should be about what both people want. Stiles had wanted this. It was why he'd come here in the first place; he won't deny that.

"What if I wanted to touch you? See you come, too."

"We can, later." _We_ , Derek says. Easily.

Stiles finds himself petting the soft cotton of Derek's henley, bumping over the each of Derek's ribs as he goes up and down. The touch doesn't seem to bother Derek who shifts to accommodate, raising his arm higher. The man is covered in muscles. It's unfair. Especially when Stiles is smaller, everywhere. He keeps forgetting that.

"But not now?"

Derek shakes his head. "We're going to nap now."

"For someone who is all about the whole choosing, you're big with ordering me around."

Then Derek shocks the hell out of him by tipping his face back and kissing his mouth. It's a brush, just a light hint of lips against lips. It's _sweet_ , and it means something the last four orgasms, Derek's hands and mouth _all over him_ , hadn't reached. Hadn't even attempted. It means- more.

Stiles hears himself sigh. It sounds sweet and contented. "Jerk."

"Yup. Asshole."

Stiles can't really deny the label. He retaliates with another bite- Derek's cock jerks, which feels really (weird) nice against his stomach- and then licks the barely reddened area. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I know. Napping, Stiles. We're napping. We'll figure the rest out later."

That sounds sensible. Weird. Stiles says that, or tries but there are lips on his again.

"Sleep," Derek says, and maybe it's the complete insanity of Derek having good plans and good ideas, but Stiles does.

**Author's Note:**

> Fanart! The lovely heavenorspace made me very hot [NSFW art! ](http://heavenorspace.tumblr.com/post/77237250079/derek-fingering-girl-stiles-for-a-little-touch-by)


End file.
